


You Must not Fear

by Belle_Rose1215



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Ghost Hunters, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Romance, Slightly crack, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:49:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23918581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belle_Rose1215/pseuds/Belle_Rose1215
Summary: Christine, desperate for some proof of an afterlife shortly after her father’s death, stumbles upon a ghost of a different sort. Modern AU, WIP
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 13
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

When Christine's dad died, she went to a medium.

Meg and Raoul both told her that she was wasting her money, that she was letting herself be taken advantage of by a con artist. She couldn't really tell herself whether the woman had been legitimate or not but she came out with some amount of closure and she felt like that alone was worth every dollar she spent. No amount of sitting at his grave or staring at pictures gave her the feeling that she had when the stranger claimed to be contacting her father.

It also gave her a new fixation. Her friends didn't really approve of that either.

They tried really hard to be supportive of Christine, she knew that they did, but one night Meg drunkenly called her crazy and Christine never really brought any of it up after that. She understood that it was a little crazy. She used to say the same thing about people that wore crystals and burned incense.

Her friends hadn't had her experience and she couldn't expect them to understand any of it without it.

From the moment she left that medium's apartment, Christine was fixated on finding some tangible proof of an afterlife. Ghosts, energy, anything at all to prove that there really was something there for that woman to contact.

So she collected some mid-market equipment and moved forward with her goals.

Christine wasn't really sure why she picked the old theater. Looking at it from the outside, she was almost certain that at least a handful of people had called it home at some point. The windows were boarded and the stone was littered with all manner of graffiti, from innocent to truly vulgar.

It was sad. It was a beautiful old building and Christine was absolutely certain that it was full of history and all sorts of stories.

Meg and Raoul would have berated her for coming to a place like this alone at night if they knew, and she really did wish she had one of them with her, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to even tell them what she was doing. It was embarrassing. If she could just get one decent audio clip she was sure she could get them to buy into it just enough to come with her.

But she had to get the clip before she could ask them, so she was alone in baggy black clothes with her blonde hair tied up tight, sure that she was trespassing and wandering into some sort of homeless camp or drug den. She wouldn't have been so worried about it if the first thing she saw when she squeezed through the gap in the door wasn't a littering of uncapped needles.

"Hello?" she called, lingering by the exit.

The only thing that answered her was a skittering sound. Whatever it was was definitely an animal. That didn't concern her too much. It was people that really scared her.

The click of the switch on her flashlight was louder than she thought it was. She moved the beam of it slowly along the walls, looking for signs of recent life more than she was for anything paranormal.

There was a shoe over by what used to be a ticket booth but was now just a crooked stand of rotting wood, but it was covered almost completely in cobwebs. Whoever left it was long gone.

For a moment, Christine wondered why they never came back for it. Then she realized that maybe she didn't want to know. She was already feeling a little more than paranoid.

So instead of dwelling on it, she made her way further into the theater, sweeping her flashlight from left to right, peeking around every corner before she actually rounded them.

There were remnants of life everywhere, clothing and busted lighters, empty cans, but the only living creatures she stumbled onto were mice and spiders. They weren't her favorite companions, but she definitely preferred them to some of the alternatives.

The double doors into the actual auditorium were wrapped twice with a chain and padlocked. Christine frowned, pulling on the handles anyway. The rattle was loud, uncomfortably loud, and she paused where she stood, holding her breath and listening for any type of footsteps. None came and she let out a sigh of relief.

There had to be a way around it. No auditorium had only one entrance and exit. She simply had to find it. Her mind was set; the stage was where she absolutely needed to start. It made sense to her. It was the room that would have held the most life. No one came to a theater to mill about in the hallways and bathrooms. It made sense, in Christine's head, that if she was going to find anything at all it would be in that room.

So she went around to the left, and that was when she was suddenly struck by the feeling of being watched. The hair on the back of her neck was standing straight up and she shivered, turning completely and letting the beam of her flashlight touch every little crevice it could find. There was nothing. No one hidden away in a corner, no furniture for anyone to hide behind, it was a long, empty hallway and as far as she could tell, she was completely alone aside from the spiders hanging from the webs in the corners.

Everything seemed so much louder than it should be. She slid her satchel in front of her and held her flashlight with her chin, digging for her little electronic recorder. It was nothing special but it had been affordable and the reviews on it were good. She could also hold it completely in one hand. She clicked the button on the side of it to start her recording and took her flashlight back into her other hand, scanning along the walls.

"Is there someone there?" she asked the empty space around her, trailing her light everywhere she could. She hadn't realized how dark it actually was in the building until then.

She couldn't hear anything, not even a squeak from a mouse or a creak from the building settling. It was uncomfortably quiet.

"My name is Christine," she said, keeping her voice as steady as she could manage to. "Will you tell me your name?"

She felt like an idiot. She had no idea what she was doing. There wasn't really a way to actually research what she was doing, so she had watched a handful of television shows and decided it didn't look that difficult. It was a lot less unsettling, watching someone else do it.

"If there is anything you want people to know, I want you to say it. Talk directly into this little device in my hand."

She gave a good, long pause before she spoke again. "I'm going to find a way into the auditorium. If you have anything else to say, that's where I'll be. I'll listen."

With that, she clicked off her recorder and continued on down the hallway. She felt a little more at ease than she had. Even staying still and speaking loudly, she hadn't heard any indication that anyone else might have been in the building.

The dressing room she found her way into made her linger. There were still costumes honing on the hooks and she ran her fingers over the dust-covered fabrics. It was almost like everything had simply paused when the building was abandoned. There was still a powder-puff and an uncapped lipstick on the counter in front of the foggy mirrors. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine the hustle and bustle of an opening night going on around her.

Christine had managed to land a job one summer as a stagehand her senior year of high school. She had always wanted to be on stage, but she missed being a part of it at all. Some part of her thought maybe that was what drew her to this particular building. She was sensitive to the type of energy that thrummed in performance venues. She had grown up in theater, following her dad as he moved from orchestra to orchestra. She remembered curling up under a makeup table just like the one she found in the abandoned theater to do her homework and being lured out with candy by one of the leads. They used to make her sing.

Something about her memories was bittersweet. She hadn't sang a note since her father died. Some integral piece of her died with him; every time she opened her mouth to try, she just found herself crying instead.

The entrance she found into the theater was through the backstage. It had been locked up just like the front entrance at some point; the chain still remained as evidence and she paused to look at it. Someone had taken bolt cutters to it. The padlock was still completely intact, uselessly holding two ends of the broken, rusted chain together.

The black-painted floor of the stage was also covered in a layer of dust, just like the rest of the building. There were deep gouges in the floor, familiar damage from set pieces dragged over the same spot again and again.

Nothing appeared to be disturbed. Set pieces still sat in their final resting places, abandoned center stage. Christine wondered when the chain had been cut. Judging by the state of things, whoever had done it was long gone.

It had been a really long time since Christine had actually walked on a stage. She shone the flashlight out and over the seats, finding nothing but moth-eaten fabric and rotting wood.

It had been a beautiful theater once, she was sure of it. Lively and bustling. Something about it felt right to her; dead, decaying. Something in her grief identified with it.

So when the urge to sing came, she didn't push it down. There was no reason to; there was no-one there to hear it and there was no-one to witness the terrible crack in her voice when she started to cry, no-one to see the way she collapsed down onto the dirty, dusty floor of the stage. There were no neighbors to hear her muffled grief through the thin walls of her nearly empty apartment.

And she thought, for a moment while she sat on the dusty stage and dug through her bag to find her recorder again, maybe it didn't matter if she actually got anything on tape. The fist-shaped lump in her chest had finally broken loose for the first time in months, and maybe that was what really mattered.

She played back the recording she had taken a few minutes before and was only mildly disappointed when she realized there was nothing on it at all other than her own voice.

Christine hit the record button and then sat back in silence for a long moment while she thought. She didn't feel the active presence that she had felt out in the hallway, but there was definitely an unsettling air about.

"Does the recorder make you uncomfortable?" she finally asked the still air. "I can turn it off if you'd like. I'd really like someone else to hear you too, but I'd be happy even if just I did. Just to know that I'm not crazy."

Silence answered her and she shone her flashlight out over the disrepaired seats again, scanning slowly over the room.

"Boo."

The word was a puff of air and she jumped, turning quickly to look behind her. It came from her left side, but there was nothing there, not even a rogue set piece someone could hide behind. Her hands were shaking and she couldn't hold the light steady.

"Hello?" she called again, embarrassed by the way her voice wavered. "If someone is there - I don't mean any harm. The theater is lovely."

Silence was her answer and she swallowed hard. "I heard you," she said, her words wavering and quaking. "Can you please do that again?"

"My name is Christine."

It was a faint whisper, just near her ear. This time, she didn't jump. The Voice was mocking her. The words it spoke were sing-song. It was just a little too deep to actually mimic her entirely.

"It is," she answered, turning a circle and looking in every corner that her light could reach. "Will you tell me yours?"

A quiet, eerie chuckle answered her from somewhere over her head in the flies. She couldn't see anything up there. None of the suspended walkways even swayed. If anything was up there they certainly would be - most of them looked like they were hardly even hanging on.

"Sing."

Christine frowned. She gave up on searching the room. No-one was there. "Did you like my singing?"

"Yes," the Voice answered simply. It was practically in her ear and she shivered, pulling her sleeves down so that they covered her arms entirely.

"What would you like me to sing?"

There was a long silence and for a moment, Christine thought it was over. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest; it was absolutely exhilarating. She hoped that her recorder was managing to pick up the faint voice; her ears hardly were.

"Sing," the Voice insisted. "I will play."

She was confused for a moment, until she heard the loud clash of a piano. It was like a child bashed it's hand randomly against the keys, and she would be lying if she said she didn't let out half a scream before she shone her flashlight down on the piano set in the pit.

There was no-one there. Just the piano, covered in a thick and untouched layer of dust. She leaned over the edge of the stage and stared in fascinated horror as it began to play itself; the keys were moving, but there was nothing, no reasonable explanation as it played a simple scale all on its own.

It wasn't even out of tune.

"Sing," the Voice repeated, and then, in a high-pitched sing-song, it repeated her words once again. "The theater is lovely."

She sat on the edge of the stage, watching the piano play the same scale again and again, and she wondered if there was really any harm in it at all. Finding no reason not to, she relaxed as much as she was able and joined in with her voice once the piano hit the bottom of the scale again.

Slowly, the piano began to alter the notes it played. She followed the shifts with her voice as best as she could. Finally, on one jump from her chest voice to her head, her voice cracked terribly. The piano suddenly fell silent and she frowned, staring at the stationary keys.

Maybe she really was crazy. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "It's been a few months. My father died and since - I don't know why I'm saying any of this."

"Listening," the Voice said, emanating from somewhere near the piano now. "It's a lovely voice."

Christine ran her thumb over the rounded edge of her recorder slowly. "That's the first time I've sang without crying since he died. That's why I'm here tonight. I needed to know - know that there was something else. Know that he didn't just vanish when his heart stopped. Thank you for giving that to me."

"Come back," the Voice whispered, the words sounding strangely like a plea. "And sing."

Her smile was watery and weak. "I will come back and sing for you," she promised softly. "Does it bring you peace?"

"Yes."

She stood slowly on the edge of the stage, staring out at the empty, decaying seats. "Will you tell me your name?"

There was a long pause, almost like the entity had to weigh its options carefully.

In that same high-pitched sing-song, it repeated her own words back to her for the last time that night. "My name is Christine."

She wasn't sure why she laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Someone was messing with you," Meg said, tying her long black hair up in a ponytail. "Chris, you know that I love you but... come on. You're smart. You know it wasn't real, deep down."

Christine frowned, mousing over the audio clip that she had been beyond excited to share with her friends. Thirteen minutes long and even though it was incredibly faint, the Voice had been picked up clearly. "You think someone was just playing a mean joke on me?" Christine asked, frowning at the thought.

"I'm still mad that you went alone and didn't tell anyone," Raoul grumbled from beside her on the couch. "You're lucky they decided to just mess with you - Christine, someone could've murdered you. Or worse."

Her friends had always called her gullible. Christine prefered to call herself open-minded instead. It wasn't that she was stupid, even they wouldn't say that, it was just that sometimes she wanted things to be true so badly that she didn't mind ignoring logic.

Sometimes, Christine consoled herself with the fact that her life was a lot more fun that way.

"Pianos don't play themselves," she insisted stubbornly. "If you had been there you guys would sound just as crazy as I do."

Raoul shifted. "Player pianos do," he said, looking at her closely. "Did you really check the piano out?"

"No," she admitted, frowning. "It wasn't playing a real song, though. You heard the recording. It was playing with me, not for me."

"I don't think you're crazy," Raoul said softly. "But I'm willing to bet money that it was a player piano."

Christine closed the lid on her laptop and wrapped her arms around herself. The break from the tightness in her chest had been too short. It was back now and it almost felt worse than before.

"And what was up with him asking you to come back, huh?" Meg added, leaning over the back of the couch and tousling Christine's hair. "Baby, you need to see a therapist. I know it's hard but playing with this creepy shit isn't helping. And that was really dangerous."

"It wasn't a player piano," Christine insisted stubbornly. Meg's hand patted her head gently, and then she was pulling away.

"I have to go," Meg said softly. "My date's gonna think I stood her up. Please don't try to summon any demons or anything before I get back, okay?"

Christine huffed out a laugh despite herself. "No promises," she answered with a weak smile. "Better make it a short date."

Meg grinned. "No promises," she echoed. "Keep her out of trouble, Raoul."

"Always," he answered easily.

Christine didn't mind living with Meg. She really didn't. Meg was really fun to be around and she never brought anyone home. She was out more often than she was in.

If it weren't for the dirty dishes she would find randomly scattered around the apartment, Christine might even say that it was ideal.

"It wasn't a player piano," Christine reiterated almost as soon as Meg was gone. "I know I sound crazy and I know you're sick of me, but it wasn't. I know what those look like. I grew up in a house practically made of instruments."

Raoul only sighed. "Do you need to go back?" he asked eventually. "I'll go with you. You can show me the piano and we can see which one of us is right."

"No," Christine huffed. "I don't want you to. Or Meg. You just wanna prove me wrong. I'm not gonna let you come just to laugh at me."

"Hey," he said, suddenly looking serious. "I'm not laughing... I'll keep an open mind. I promise. I'm not making fun of you. I just want you to be safe, okay?"

"... Yeah," she mumbled.

"Good," he answered, his smile soft and charming. "Then let's go after dinner. I'm starving."

* * *

Watching Raoul try to squeeze through the small gap in the door that she had come through almost made bringing him worth it alone.

He wasn't fat, not by any means, but he had a particularly athletic build that he had managed to hold onto even after high school.

"Don't laugh at me," he grumbled in good humor. "You watched me eat three tacos. Could've warned me about this bullshit."

She couldn't hold back her laugh at that. "You need me to pull?"

"Hah! Never," he answered, finally shimmying his way inside. "Jesus it's dark. I can't believe you made it further than ten steps alone."

"I'm not a baby," she huffed. "I haven't been scared of the dark since middle school."

"Christine Daae," he said warmly, shining his flashlight along the wall. "The girl who almost pissed herself playing Bloody Mary her junior year, ghost hunting all by her lonesome."

"That wasn't funny," she groaned, bumping against his arm. "It was your fault anyway, letting me drink like that."

"No I'm just saying," he said, his voice soft as he followed her down the dark hallways. "No-one would have expected it. Mediums and ghosts... what comes next? Tarot?"

"And what if it does?" she asked, ducking back into the same dressing room she had found her way through the first time.

"Nothing I guess," he answered. His footsteps were loud and Christine would have to admit that she felt much more at-ease with him there to fill the eerie silence. "If it makes you happy that's all that matters. I really don't mind that you're into all this stuff now. It's actually pretty interesting. I just want you to make sure that you're safe when you do it, that's all."

"You're ridiculous," she huffed, feeling the burn in her cheeks.

Raoul had been her high-school sweetheart. They dated for three years before they decided that they were better as friends. If they were just friends, they didn't have to worry about losing each other.

They were great as friends, aside from the fact that something nearly romantic still lingered between them. It was never really awkward, but Christine still couldn't figure out how to get her cheeks to stop flushing every time it reared its head.

"Me?" he laughed. "Look at what you made us wear. We look like we're gonna go hold up a bank."

"Maybe we are."

"Listen," he said seriously. "I draw the line at vampire hunting, okay? No bank robberies."

Christine stopped right in her tracks, her light focused on the chain on the floor beside the stage door. She would have sworn it was next to the hinge of the door the day before, but now it was on the opposite side, curled on the floor like a rusted snake. It had definitely been moved. Yesterday the padlock had been on top of it; today it was buried under the chain.

"Something wrong?"

"No," she said, reaching for the handle of the door. "Piano is in here, Mister appraiser."

She felt a little more at ease when she moved her light over the stage. Nothing out there had moved at all. Everything seemed to sit in the exact same place it had the day before, and she led Raoul over to the pit with restored confidence.

"Right there, have at it," she said, gesturing at the black piano.

Raoul handed her his flashlight and she held it for him as he dropped down off of the edge of the stage. He paused and brushed his hands together, ridding himself of the dirt and little chips of black paint that clung to his palms before he took it back from her.

He was handsome. It was a thought that would randomly hit Christine sometimes. About all that her flashlight could reach was the piano and his face. He looked like he could have walked off of the cover of a magazine, with his intense blue eyes and soft light hair, his perfect lips, his perfect skin.

The illusion was kind of shattered by the fact that she knew him. He was just as gross as any other guy she had met. His bathroom sink had toothpaste stains that had been there for months and only thirty minutes ago he had said "Watch this!" and Christine was forced to witness him shoving an entire soft-shelled taco into his mouth without taking a single bite.

That didn't change the fact that objectively, he was beautiful.

"Huh," he said, pressing the pedals of the piano with the tips of his toes and frowning.

Christine couldn't hold back her smile. "Not a player, is it?"

"Not like any I've ever seen," he admitted. "There's not even a place to put a scroll if it is."

"Told you so," Christine answered.

There was a slight draft and Christine shivered, watching the way Raoul stared at the piano like he could see through it if he tried hard enough.

"His name."

The Voice was exactly the same as the one she had heard the night before and she looked over her shoulders in the direction it had come from.

"Raoul," she answered simply.

"What?" Raoul asked, standing up and looking at her.

She frowned. "You didn't hear that?"

"Hear what?"

She shook her head. "Nevermind. Finding anything interesting in the piano?"

"No," he sighed, pressing a single key and frowning as the note played. "I'm still skeptical, but I promised I'd try to be open minded. It's just a regular old piano."

"You didn't hear that?" The Voice was high-pitched, an echo directly in her ear, and Christine looked around carefully.

"Hey, I can't see shit when you do that."

"Sorry," Christine said, pointing her flashlight back down into the pit. "I thought I heard something."

"I'm starting to think you're messing with me," Raoul chuckled. "It isn't gonna work. Ghost stories don't scare me."

"Come alone," the Voice whispered. She could have sworn it was sitting directly on her shoulder. "And sing."

"Are you cold?" Christine asked, wrapping her arms around herself and keeping the flashlight pointed down into the pit for him.

He set his flashlight at the edge of the stage and pulled himself back up with ease. "Yeah, there's a good draft," he answered. "Wonder if that's why no ones really living here."

There was a shift in the general atmosphere; where Christine had felt almost at ease the night before, she was suddenly nervous. There was an odd feeling of danger hanging over her, and she wasn't sure why. She wanted to leave.

"Thank you for coming with me," she said, grabbing onto Raoul's arm. It comforted her, keeping him close. "And for looking out for me."

"Always," he said, frowning slightly as he looked at her. "How about we get out of here? I'm really feeling some ice cream."

She couldn't be sure whether he felt the same thing she did or if he was simply picking up on her nervousness, but either way she was relieved that he was the one to call it.

"Ice cream sounds divine," she answered, looking over her shoulder and into the inky blackness of the auditorium as Raoul led her away.


	3. Chapter 3

Christine felt like maybe it wasn't fair, but something about her friend's insistence on her questioning things and the general feeling she got when she was in that theater with Raoul left her too nervous to return right away.

She didn't feel good about it. In fact, she felt downright guilty. There was something there, even if it wasn't actually supernatural, that drew her in. She promised the voice that she had heard that she would come back and sing for it. Part of her wondered if it would even remember her if she did return - it had been nearly a month and she was sure that people were in and out of that theater more often than they weren't.

It was shelter, if nothing else. Urban exploration was a popular hobby and she was sure there were other people like her that passed through, people desperate to capture some proof of something supernatural.

She was determined to go back. She couldn't live with the thought that some poor soul would be sitting there waiting for eternity. So she would go back, but first she would pay a visit to the medium it had all started with.

The apartment was nothing much different than Christine's. There was no crystal ball, no herbs, even the books on the coffee table were as mundane as anyone else's.

If Christine hadn't actively seeked her out, she never would have guessed that the woman dabbled in the occult. She looked more like a school teacher. Her skin was a few shades darker than Christine's, her hair straight and dark, her eyes a mundane brown.

She greeted Christine with a warm hug. "I'm glad to see you again," Nadia said. "I was worried for you when you left. You were in a state."

Christine's smile was strained. "You left me with a lot to think about," she answered.

"And how has that thinking been going?"

Christine crossed her arms over her chest. "I was wondering if you could try to answer some questions for me."

"Of course I can try," Nadia answered, her smile bright and welcoming. "No promises on whether I'll know the answers or not, though... come in, sweetheart. Are you thirsty?"

"No, I'm okay," Christine said, sinking into the same chair that she had the first time around, rudely putting her elbows on the table. "Do you think anyone can contact a spirit?"

"Starting out with a doozy, huh?" she asked, sitting in the chair opposite of Christine. "It's possible," she said slowly. "I think they really come to those most open to them, though. Part of the reason people will be calling me crazy till the end days. It ain't an experience everyone gets."

" ... How do you know if it's good?" Christine asked. "Whatever's contacting you, I mean."

Nadia stared at her seriously. "Nothing is all good," she answered. "They were just people, too... what have you gotten yourself into?"

Christine looked down at her hands. "I think I might've contacted something," she answered. "But I don't want to keep contacting it if it isn't safe."

"Nothing is guaranteed to be safe," Nadia said. "No person and no entity... you haven't been playing with one of those ouija boards or something, have you?"

"No," Christine answered quickly. "No, nothing that crazy. I just... had an experience. Whatever it was, it was actually listening to me. It made sense. Can they do that all by themselves?"

"Anything is possible," Nadia answered with a sigh. "Where did this experience happen?"

"The old theater," Christine said, looking at her again. "I don't really know why I even went there. I'm not even sure if anyone ever actually died there."

"It doesn't matter where they died, not really," Nadia said slowly. "It's where they lived, mostly... that place is a death trap these days. You're lucky that's the only thing you ran into."

Christine shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. "What should I be doing to protect myself?"

"Trust your gut," Nadia answered simply."... And consider bringing something to protect yourself from the living things if you aren't already."

* * *

It took her a week to work up the nerve to try again. Christine bought a pocket knife first and then, realizing she would probably never work up the nerve to actually use it, she got herself a little canister of pepper spray.

Trust her gut was some pretty bad advice, in her opinion. Her gut didn't really know any more than her head or heart did. One moment it was fine and the very next day she was ready to run.

She would try. That's what she told herself. She promised that she would come and that she would sing, she didn't promise that she would do it more than once. She wasn't sure if she would ever really be able to let it go if she didn't at least try.

Two days she visited and stared at the exterior of the massive, looming building. The building alone was intimidating regardless of what loomed inside. In those two days, she never saw anyone go in or out. It was reassuring, to a point.

It wasn't until the third day that she worked up the nerve to finally go inside.

She was quiet as she could be. It had been a while, but the path was familiar. Nothing really seemed out of place at all - the shoe near the front door was even in the exact same place it had been on her first visit.

The chain near the stage door was in the same spot it had been in when she visited with Raoul, and she wondered if she should really feel as relieved by it as she did.

Aside from the creaking scrape of the heavy door when she pushed it open, she was silent as a church mouse. She even tried to muffle her footsteps as she stepped out onto the stage.

The silence was oppressive, like the quiet long after midnight in a small town. She could have heard a pin drop.

She brought no fancy equipment with her, just the pocket knife and the small canister of pepper spray that she rolled between her fingers every so often to reassure herself it was there. There was no reason to try to record it; she already had a clip and Raoul hadn't been able to hear it even standing right next to her.

"Hello, Christine," the Voice whispered from near her, drawing out every syllable in her name like it was testing them.

She wasn't sure why. It had spoken her name before. "I would like to greet you, too," she answered slowly. "But you won't tell me your name."

There was a long silence and eventually, she cleared her throat and pulled nervously at the ends of her sleeves.

"It's been a while," she said slowly. "I thought you may have forgotten me by now."

"Unforgettable," the Voice answered easily. "You have a lovely voice."

"I promised that I would come back," she said nervously.

"And sing," the Voice replied. "I remember."

The Voice moved around her in an unnatural way, almost like it was circling her, louder on the left and quieter on the right. It was clear, intelligent, responsive.

Christine forced down the odd feeling that twisted deep in her stomach. "And sing," she agreed. "What would you like me to sing?"

"On the piano, Christine," the Voice replied, drawing out her name in the same way it had before. It was nearly affectionate.

She wasn't sure what to think about that, so she tried to ignore it and made her way to the piano instead, focusing her flashlight on it.

"How did you do that?" she asked, struggling to keep the panicked shake out of her voice when she saw the two sheets of music sat neatly on the piano as though someone had simply forgotten to take it when they finished playing.

"Do not be afraid," the Voice answered, it's tone soft and calming. "I can do many things."

It was more responsive, more coherent than it had ever been. It was like every moment that she spent with the Voice strengthened it. The thought was nerve-wracking.

"What are you?" she breathed, turning a circle and searching the shadows for any shapes that seemed even slightly out of place.

"Sing, Christine," the Voice said in a non-answer. "As you promised."


	4. Chapter 4

Christine screamed, shooting straight up in bed and clutching her comforter to her chin, staring at her window.

Footsteps booked up the hallway and her door swung open. "Jesus Christ, I thought you were getting murdered," Meg huffed from the doorway. "Nightmare?"

"There was someone at the window," Christine answered, still out of breath. "They were looking in."

Meg looked at her in confusion, and then she looked at her bedroom window. "Chris... we're on the second floor. No-one was outside of your window."

"They were," Christine insisted. "On the fire escape. I saw them... Meg, someone was there. I swear to God they were."

Meg frowned but she made her way to the window anyway, pulling the curtains open the rest of the way and looking out. She pulled on the window gently, making sure it was locked. "Well, they're long gone now," she said, pulling the curtains closed firmly. "What did they look like?"

"Tall," Christine said with certainty. "They had to - to crouch down to look through the window."

"Tall," Meg said, sitting on the edge of Christine's bed. "What else?"

Christine felt her own blush. "All I could see was a shadow," she admitted, feeling like an idiot. "And eyes. It was too dark."

"Do you think we should call the cops?" Meg asked. "They were probably looking for an easy apartment to rob."

Christine swallowed. She had seen it clearly; a tall, lanky shadow with pale wrists and yellow eyes. How could she tell the police that she saw a yellow-eyed man when she couldn't even make herself tell her friend? "No," she said, finally managing to calm her breathing. "I was probably - I could have been imagining things. I was half asleep... I swear I saw something, though."

"I believe you," Meg said seriously. "You need to take a break, Chris. You're making yourself paranoid... If there was someone there they were just looking for an empty apartment, that's all. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," she whispered, knowing in her heart that it wasn't true. "You're right."

"You wanna come watch a movie with me or are you gonna be able to fall back asleep?"

"I'll be okay," Christine said, forcing herself to smile. "Thanks. I'm sorry I gave you a heart attack."

"I'm just glad you're okay. If you change your mind just let me know. I'll be up for a while anyway."

"Thank you," Christine said again. "I dunno what I'd do without you."

"And don't forget it," Meg said with a grin, standing up from the edge of her bed. "Goodnight. No more late night ghost reading, okay?"

"I promise," Christine answered. "Goodnight, Meg."

Christine managed to hold her smile until her bedroom door closed behind Meg and then she threw herself back against her pillow with a huff, staring toward her window.

Since her last visit to the theater, paranoia had been steadily creeping in on her. Raoul was over a lot more often because she could hardly manage to keep herself straight when she was home alone. She constantly had a feeling of being watched and every time she was out in public, she caught herself looking over her shoulder more often than she wasn't.

Now she wondered if maybe it wasn't all in her head. Maybe someone, or something, really was watching her.

The figure she saw was solid. Aside from the eyes, it was definitely human. She wondered why she felt more disappointed than afraid.

* * *

It took her two days to find a camera she could afford. The quality of the video it took wasn't great and the battery life was terrible, but it would also record when it was charging so she figured it would be good enough.

It wasn't very inconspicuous. She propped it up against her bedroom window and it was pretty obvious. The little red light was a bit too bright and she didn't have enough tape to actually darken it completely. It muffled it enough that you couldn't see it until you were on top of it, though, and it was good enough for her.

Her bedroom quickly became a tangle of wires. Her laptop sat in the center of her floor and she plugged the charging cord for the camera into it, and then she strung her laptop charger as far as she could and plugged it into the wall.

She developed a new nightly routine and she was particular about it. Meg's room first; that was the room she was in the least, to check and make sure that the window was locked and the blinds closed completely. Next was the apartment door, and then the living room and the one small window in their bathroom. She would always finish with her room, peeking out onto the fire escape, checking her camera to make sure it was recording, and then pulling her shades as tightly as she could manage.

In the morning she would pluck the memory card out of the camera and into her laptop, scrubbing through the footage before she even peed.

She would catch movement on the street sometimes, but it was too far away to actually make anything out. On the third day, she caught a bird landing on the railing of the fire escape early in the morning. On the sixth, she watched a racoon pillage the dumpster across the alley from her, but she didn't catch the figure she had seen again.

Nearly two weeks after installing her camera, just when she started to find herself relaxing, she pulled open her curtains to grab her camera and saw a torn sheet of cardboard on the fire escape, just under her window.

She frowned and took the little memory card from the camera, sitting on the floor with her laptop and praying that all she would find was garbage fluttering down from an apartment overhead.

There was nearly ten hours of footage to scrub through. Even setting the playback at two times speed wouldn't help much, so she jumped fifteen minutes at a time and watched for a few seconds after each jump, making sure everything looked the same.

It was somewhere between two forty-five and three that the screen went black and she frowned, going back and watching closely through the clip.

She captured no figure. The movement came from the lower left corner of the screen and slowly obscured it completely. The only thing she was able to make out was a single black-gloved finger.

Christine could have cried. If she was honest, she did cry a little bit.

Since her last trip, she had avoided the theater like the plague. She would go three blocks over just so that she didn't have to walk past it on the street. Sometimes, she wished that she had never gone in the first place.

She went looking for a ghost and all she had found was a stalker. It was even worse because she couldn't catch any proof of it. He was obviously too smart for it; one step ahead of her the whole way.

Now she still didn't sing; not out of grief, but instead out of a strange paranoia that if she did, he would come to her. She didn't want him to come to her. She wanted the safety of a ghost, something that she could control the contact with, something that couldn't reach out and touch her in any meaningful way.

Avoiding it hadn't worked. He was obviously still there, still following, still watching and something told her that the longer she avoided it, the worse it would get.

Instead of reading about ghosts, she found herself sucked down a rabbit hole reading about stalking. She dove head-first into papers about mental illness that went way over her head. She threw herself into researching the color of the eyes that she had seen, wondering if it was even possible.

She just wanted it to stop. She wanted to be able to grieve for her dad instead of staring constantly over her shoulder.

It had helped, for a minute, but now she was in an even worse place than she had been when she started. She missed her dad _and_ she could hardly sleep at night, wondering every night if that would be the night he made his move in whatever he was planning.

It was all very confusing. All of the times he had her alone, he had never once made any move to hurt her. He had never given any indication that he was going to reveal himself to her, that he was ever going to make himself known to her as anything other than a ghost.

She didn't understand any of it, and it made it all so much worse.

The only way to make it stop was to confront it head-on, and the thought terrified her more than she'd like to admit.


	5. Chapter 5

Everything was exactly the same. The theater was just as cold, just as dark, just as deserted as it had always been. She stood directly center stage, attempting to steel her nerves.

He was there. The Voice. He always was and she felt the familiar prickle of eyes on her.

"I saw you," she said loudly. "Outside of my window. I know it was you. What is your name?"

The silence was loud, the air thick, and Christine looked about herself with her flashlight that was too dim for a space so large.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked, making a real effort to keep her voice loud and steady. "I'm here. Alone. No-one knows where I am. If you're planning to do something to me, this is your chance."

The silence dragged on and Christine frowned.

"I deserve an answer," she said slowly. "You came to my home. You looked through my windows. God only knows what all you've seen. You violated me. My whole life is in disarray because I constantly feel you there, watching. You owe me answers. I've earned them."

"Erik," the Voice answered, the word small and almost even shy.

"Erik," she repeated. "Is that your name?"

"Yes," Erik answered, his voice coming from the opposite side of the stage now.

Christine huffed. When she crossed her arms it wasn't out of fear; it was frustration. "Why are you following me?"

"Will you sing?"

Her laugh was halfway bitter. "No!" she answered. "You've lied to me. You've stalked me. Come out; I've already seen you. I won't let you make an idiot out of me anymore."

"If I come out," the Voice said slowly, lingering near her left ear, "will you sing?"

She wanted to yell at him, to tell him that she would never sing for him again, that she was calling the police, but for some reason the words all died in her throat. "Maybe," she said instead. "But I definitely won't if you keep hiding."

"I never violated your modesty," he said as though he was offering an actual defense for himself.

"Closing your eyes when I change doesn't make it any better," she sighed. "Please come out, Erik. I want to meet you properly."

There was silence for a long time after that. Eventually, Christine sighed.

"I'm not angry," she said slowly. "I just want to understand."

"You will not understand," his voice answered, the words soft and sad. "You will only be frightened. You will not want to sing for me any more."

"You've already scared me anyway," she said, worrying her lip. "But you haven't hurt me, and you've had plenty of chances to. I'll try not to be scared. Please, Erik."

He didn't answer, not for a long moment and then, for the first time, she heard footsteps that weren't her own. She swallowed and then she turned, shining her flashlight directly at the figure that seemed to be materializing from the shadows themselves.

There was no question that he was the man she saw outside of her bedroom window. He covered his eyes with his forearm, but everything else was a nearly perfect match.

He was tall, very tall, and dressed head-to-toe in black. The only hint of color at all was his pale throat and wrists, only exposed because the gloves he wore didn't quite reach the end of his long sleeves. He was so thin that he nearly looked brittle; it wasn't a thought that she would let herself rely on.

She was small herself, alone, and she really didn't have a fighting bone in her body. Brittle or not, she was certain he could overpower her if he truly wanted to.

"Are you wearing a mask?" she asked, taking a careful step backwards. She wasn't sure why she did. He had made no attempt to approach her, stopping only just close enough for her flashlight to be able to reach him.

"Please," he said, his voice emanating from him for the first time since she had met him. "Do not be afraid, Christine."

Slowly he lowered his arm, and she swore she watched his pupils contract with the light. She hadn't imagined it - his eyes were a light, pale yellow. "Why are you here?" she asked, lowering her flashlight slightly so that it wasn't directly in his eyes.

"This is my home," he answered simply.

Christine frowned. "Did you think it was funny?" she asked bitterly. "Did you laugh when I left?"

"Not at all," he answered seriously.

She swallowed, trying to comprehend what she saw in front of her. His mask was black, covering the entirety of his face, even his lips. "Why are you wearing that?'' she asked quietly, watching him to be sure he wasn't coming closer.

"It is not to conceal my identity," he answered vaguely. "I took no pleasure in lying to you, Christine. I was not amused by your tears, nor your belief that I was something untouchable. I didn't intend for you to find out this way."

"But you did intend for me to find out," she said slowly. "Why did you let me think you were a ghost?"

"Everyone thinks that I am a ghost," he answered, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Some come because of it - most leave when I make my presence known. As I said, this is my home. Guests are not often welcome."

"But I am," she sighed, tightening her arms around herself. "How did you make the piano play like that?"

His laugh was soft, awkward, barely even there. Christine found herself wondering what it would sound like if he actually laughed. "It's all unnecessarily complicated," he answered softly. "It may be of some interest... it would take hours to deconstruct the illusion. I would gladly show you sometime, if you'd like."

"And your voice?"

"I'm somewhat of a ventriloquist," he answered. She swore the words came from her flashlight and she nearly dropped it. "Technology lends a great assistance, though."

Christine frowned. "So you're the wizard of Oz," she murmured.

His head tilted slightly to the side as he looked at her curiously. "I suppose, in a way," he answered.

"But you could have told me," she huffed. "You could have told me that I was wrong. You didn't have to pretend. You didn't have to stalk me."

He looked down toward his feet, his thumb and index finger rubbing together nervously. "I listened to you cry," he said, the words small. "You wanted a ghost so badly," he continued quietly. "There are no ghosts here. Not real ones... you wanted a ghost, and your singing - your voice brings me great joy, Christine. If I shattered the illusion... why would you come back?"

She swallowed nervously. "You can't stalk me anymore," she said as firmly as she could manage. "No more following me, no more looking in my windows. You scared me so badly, Erik. You're lucky I don't own a gun."

"I understand," he answered, his voice small. "No more... I never meant to frighten you."

"And what did you think stalking would do?"

He shifted on his feet and pulled at the collar of his shirt. "I suppose it's no defense," he said slowly, "but I didn't intend to let you see me."

Her laugh was half broken. She wasn't sure why she even laughed; it was more terrifying than funny. She blamed it on her mounting stress, on the relief of having a mystery solved and the reassurance that she wasn't just losing her mind. It may not have been what she thought it was, but it was all very real. None of it had been in her head. It was a relief all on it's own.

"I'm sorry that I am not a ghost," he said softly. "I wish that I could be, for you."

"I don't want you to be a ghost," she half-laughed. "Please, don't be a ghost anymore. Not for me."

He perked up slightly at that, finally looking at her again. "Does that mean that you'll come back?" he asked, that same hopeful inflection in his voice that had been there the first time he asked her to.

She shifted awkwardly. "Will you play something for me?" she asked instead of answering. "Actually play something. Where I can see you."

" ... I'll have to walk past you," he said slowly. When she nodded, he returned it. "Will you hold your flashlight for me so that I can see?"

"Yeah," she answered softly.

He moved past her slowly, silently, and suddenly she realized that the only reason she had heard his footsteps at all was because he wanted her to.

He moved with ease and dropped into the darkened pit as though it was simply routine, like he did it every day.

Maybe he did.

It only took one look from him for her to raise her flashlight for him, illuminating the keys. She recognized the song that he played, but she wouldn't have been able to name it. Something old and classical. It was pretty, but nothing particularly unique. It was watching him that really interested her.

He moved with just as much ease as he played. She had the strangest suspicion that he didn't need her light and had only asked her to hold it to put her more at ease; he hardly so much as opened his eyes.

When he finished playing, he sat back quietly for a long moment, one finger tracing over the edge of the yellowed keys. "Will you sing, Christine?" he asked again, his voice quiet.

" .. Not today," she said softly, watching the way that his eyes shifted fully to the piano.

He took a slow breath and gave half a sad nod.

"If I find you stalking me, I'll never sing again," she said softly. "You have to promise me - promise that you won't follow me. Promise that you won't look in my windows anymore."

"Never," he said quickly, his eyes snapping to her hopefully. "Never again, Christine. I promise."

She bit her lip. It may have been a mistake, but did it matter at this point? He knew where she lived and she couldn't afford to move. She had been alone with him plenty of times and he had never so much as touched her.

She nodded slowly. "If you promise - if you really promise then I'll sing for you tomorrow."


	6. Chapter 6

It took a few weeks to get used to it.

The walk through the cold, empty theater wasn't quite as intimidating when he started meeting her by the door. It was odd that she felt so at ease with him, particularly when he had already crossed boundaries in a large leap, but she did.

Erik was odd in more ways than one. The more time she spent with him, the less surprised she was by the fact that he had stepped into stalking like it was a normal thing to do. She had a sneaking suspicion that he didn't really know what normal was.

There weren't many questions that he answered willingly. He would gladly listen to her talk for hours, but it was very rare for her to find a subject that he would weigh in on. He obstinenty refused to talk about his mask and anything alluding to his past was just about as difficult a subject to navigate through.

He was particularly interested when she would talk about her dad. When she would ask him why, he simply shook his head and shifted back to music in a weak attempt to change the subject.

The one thing that did surprise her was how much of a gentleman he was. It was almost like he learned all of his social skills from ancient pamphlets and antique guidebooks.

He was childish in a way that she couldn't quite put her finger on. He wasn't immature or rude, but he was insatiable curious about the strangest things. Like one evening, when she was twenty minutes late and had to explain that she had been held over at work. She was only a waitress, but with his intensive curiosity she might as well have been an astronaut.

Erik was shy, curious, and even though she knew that she probably shouldn't let herself be lulled into it, she found herself believing that he honestly was harmless, at least as far as she was concerned.

They would sing, sometimes for hours. Erik was insasiable in that, too. If he had it his way, she was pretty sure he would let her sing herself to death. When they were finished, and she was exhausted, he would sit on the edge of the stage with her, at least two feet apart with their legs dangling into the pit, and they would talk.

Or, more aptly, she would talk and he would listen.

"So you really live here?" she asked one evening, pulling her heels up on the edge of the stage and resting her chin on her knees.

"I do," he answered easily. "It's not so terrible as you might imagine."

"It's really dark," she pointed out.

His laugh had become easier over the weeks. It still wasn't full, but it was slowly getting there. "I am not afraid of the dark," he answered. "And I do have light.. bright lights give me headaches, anyway. The dark is far more comfortable."

She looked at him closely. "Is it because of your eyes?"

He shifted, looking down at the edge of the stage. "I suppose it could be," he answered. "I have read that light eyes are most sensitive."

Christine ran her thumb along the switch of her flashlight. "Does my light bother you?"

"Not so much," he answered. "It's bearable, so long as it's not directly on me."

Christine frowned slightly. "Don't you get cold? It's so drafty."

"Well, I don't live on the stage," he said slowly. "Would you like to see where I actually live?"

She chewed on the inside of her lip. She had been incredibly reckless with the entire situation. She still hadn't even told her friends that she had solved her ghost situation. Honestly, she wasn't sure how to. She was aware that no matter how she framed it, they would be incredibly worried; and rightfully so. They would tell her not to come back.

So they still didn't know where she went in the evening. They still thought that she was too frightened to go back to the theater. And she wanted to, for some reason. She didn't want to give up the odd, off-brand friendship that she had been developing with Erik.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I think I would."

He nodded, and then he was slipping off the edge of the stage. "Then I will show you. Perhaps it will ease your mind."

She followed him down, through one of the aisles cut between the rotting seats, shining her flashlight over them as they went. "Do you always come this way?" she asked, wondering how she had never managed to see any movement when she had been watching so intently.

"Theaters are full of shortcuts."

Even when he answered her questions he never really answered them. Under normal circumstances she may have found that frustrating, but it was more intriguing than anything.

In the end, she thought it was probably more for show than anything. He led her down two long hallways and by the time he stopped, they were nearly back to the dressing rooms that were her normal passage.

"Are you familiar with theaters, Christine?" he asked.

"I practically grew up in them," she answered easily. "My father was a violinist."

She had never understood the phrase smiling eyes until she met Erik. She thought that it probably had a lot to do with the fact that his eyes were about all he would let her see.

"Then you are aware that the top of a stage is not the end of it."

She shifted her grip on her flashlight awkwardly, training it on the floor in an attempt to avoid irritating his eyes. "It can't be very roomy," she said.

"Perhaps more than you think. Follow me."

The door that he led her to was large and solid metal, painted to match the off white color of the walls. She shifted as he fiddled with the handle.

"Do you need my light?" she asked after a moment.

"No," he answered as the door gave a click. "It is not faulty. Follow me."

Part of her wondered if it was nervousness that made him keep reminding her to follow. She definitely hadn't faltered or trailed off.

It was dark. Every place in the theater was dark, but stepping through the door Christine was hit by a sudden feeling of claustrophobia, like the dark was so thick that it forced the walls to start to close in around her.

"Christine," his voice came from just behind her ear and she jumped, reaching for it and finding nothing.

The match made a snapping sound that she was pretty sure she could only hear because it was dark. "Don't do that!" she scolded him, hand over her heart. "It always scares me."

The laughter faded from his eyes so suddenly that she wasn't sure if it had ever been there in the first place. "I don't - I forget, sometimes, when I'm with you... I'm sorry. I do not want you to be frightened of me."

She only shook her head and grabbed hold of his sleeve with two fingers. She didn't reach for him often - physical contact seemed to make him visibly uncomfortable - but in the low flicker of the match's tiny flame she felt strangely like the darkness was going to swallow her whole.

He was solemn and hardly reacted, leading her further into the darkness and pausing to strike a second match when the first flickered out.

The candles were plain, scentless, and she couldn't quite tell if their fixtures were old props left to wither away or truly antique; the golden color of the arms that supported each candle stick was faded in spots, silver-grey peeking out where they had obviously been handled time and time again.

"I do have more traditional lights, if you'd prefer," he said slowly. "I mostly prefer the candles."

"No," she said softly, releasing his sleeve and looking around herself, trying to take it all in. "Erik, do you really... do you live like this?"

He was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, she could almost hear the frown in his voice. "It is very clean."

"No, I only mean..." Christine frowned, looking at the pile of mismatched throw pillows that she was almost certain made up his makeshift bed. "It's very unique. Doesn't it get awfully lonely though? And there's no sunlight."

"Oh!" he answered, leaning over the back of a short wooden chair that was pushed up against a faded wooden table. "I'm quite good at entertaining myself - perhaps at entertaining others... one day I can show you. I know many magic tricks, only... I don't wish to frighten you."

"But sunlight, fresh air..."

"Is only a short walk away," he answered, tilting his head as he contemplated her. "A window would not be so terrible, if I had a reason to have one."

She felt her cheeks flush. Every so often something fond crept into his voice and it was difficult to tell whether he was simply fond of the company she brought on whether it was her that he was so fond of. "Is this the only room?'' she asked softly.

He seemed to perk up at that. "No, certainly not! If you'll follow me, I'll show you the rest..."

"I'd like that," she said softly, reaching for the hand he offered.


	7. Chapter 7

Christine's footsteps echoed as she ran down the dark hallways of the theater. Her arms were full and it made using her flashlight almost impossible.

It didn't really matter. She knew the hallways nearly as well as Erik did by now.

She skidded to a stop in the center of the wide hallway, frowning. "Erik?" she called into the quiet.

Silence was her answer and she huffed in frustration. The boxes in her arms were heavy and so was the theater door. It was odd to not be met by him at the front door but she wanted to surprise him and failed to give her customary warning. She also almost never visited midday, mostly because she was afraid she would be arrested for trespassing, so it wasn't so very concerning that he wasn't right there immediately.

"Erik?" she called, just a bit louder. "I need help! I brought something!"

There was still no answer and she sighed, continuing down the hallway at a much slower pace.

When she bumped into something solid she let out a squeak, and she only heard a soft chuckle. She was glad that her arms were full because if they weren't, she feared she would have slapped his arm and she genuinely wasn't sure what his reaction would be.

"You must be quiet, Christine," he murmured, taking a box from her hands. "You'll wake the ghosts."

She rolled her eyes but she couldn't help her small smile. Erik was sweet. He was slowly opening up and the more he did, the more she actually found herself enjoying her time with him. He had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor and she found herself laughing often.

He seemed to enjoy making her laugh, even when he didn't mean to.

"What is all this?" he asked, shifting the box he had taken from her in his hands.

"Lunch," she said with a grin. "I'm starving. Are you hungry?"

"That's very kind," he said slowly, leaving her with his vague non-answer

She wasn't sure why she suddenly felt so awkward but she tried her best to shake it off as she followed the sound of his footsteps.

"I brought a camping light," she said to fill the quiet between them. "It's a lot more dim than my flashlight - it's yellow light instead of white."

She heard the loud creak as he pulled a door open. "You are very thoughtful, Christine," he said, the words measured and quiet.

He seemed thoughtful in his quiet so she let it settle between them, walking ahead as he held the heavy stage door open for her.

It wasn't until she was center stage that he finally paused. "I've meant to ask," he said softly, the sentence trailing off and dying in the center as his long fingers tapped nervously against the side of the cardboard box he held.

"You can ask me anything." she said softly when she realized that he was losing his nerve, the sentence hanging dead in the air between them.

His shoulders dropped. "I would like to take you someplace tonight," he said, the words seeming to come from nowhere and decidedly not a question. "But it would have to be after dark."

"After dark," she repeated, cutting herself off before she could jokingly ask if he meant to kill her.

Erik didn't always understand her jokes. She tried her best to keep her more depreciative jokes to herself, disliking the hurt look in his eyes far too much to actually find them funny.

After all, if he meant to kill her, he definitely would have done it by now.

"Okay," she agreed slowly when he said nothing. "After dark. Where will you take me?"

When he turned to look at her, she could almost pick out the mischievous glimmer in his eye. "If I told you it wouldn't be much of a surprise. You'll need your flashlight."

* * *

Christine thought that Erik must have some funny ideas about what a date was.

He probably had some funny ideas about a lot of things.

Regardless, the expansive cemetery wasn't exactly what she would call romantic. What might have been pretty and calming in the daylight was gloomy and almost oppressive in the darkness. When she wrapped her hand around his forearm, he hardly even flinched.

He was getting used to her small touches. "Why a cemetary?" she asked, suddenly realizing how quiet it was around them.

He paused, tilting his head slightly as he looked at her. "I am not a ghost," he said, the words sounding almost like a confession. "But perhaps I can help you find one. A real one."

Christine frowned, her hand tightening around his arm. "You've brought me here to scare me," she accused. "Or to make fun of me."

"Certainly not," he said, sounding truly offended. "I've had quite enough of frightening you and I find no humor in your search."

"I don't know if I even believe in ghosts," she confessed, speaking the words out loud for the first time. "And anyway, aren't they supposed to be where the people died? Not out in cemetaries."

"I haven't the slightest idea," he admitted sheepishly. "I'll confess that I've never had much interest myself... but it is important to you. Do you have your little recorder?"

Something in her softened at that, and she stared up into his mask in the oddly blue moon light. "I don't," she said softly. "I haven't carried it with me in a long while."

His mask shifted and she was pretty sure he was frowning underneath it. "Then how will we know if there is a ghost?"

She might have laughed if she wasn't suddenly feeling so serious as she stared up at him. "It's my turn," she said softly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Certainly," he answered easily.

" ... Erik, do you like me?" she asked, doing her best to keep her voice as unthreatening and accusatory as possible.

"Of course," he answered just a bit too easily. "I would have chased you off otherwise."

"No," she said softly, staring up at him carefully, hoping that she might catch some sort of look in his eyes. "I mean as more than a friend, Erik."

He went quiet for a long moment, looking away from her. "I'm afraid that I wouldn't know," he confessed eventually. "I've never had many friends."

She swallowed, staring at him and his face that was obstinently turned away from her. She wanted to ask him about the friends that the statement implied that he did have, but there was time for that later. "Do you want to kiss me sometimes?" she asked instead.

His eyes snapped back to hers and he didn't have to answer for her to understand the look in them.

She moved slowly, pushing herself up on her toes, and the kiss that she pressed to the unmoving lips of his mask was quick and shy.

There were a lot of questions to ask. Questions about his past, about his friends, about what was hidden under his mask, about how she could ever actually go about entwining his life with hers, but none of them seemed to matter in that moment. Not when she rested her temple against his bony shoulder and stared at a fading grey headstone.

When his free hand shyly covered hers, still wrapped around his left forearm, she realized it really didn't matter at all.

They had all the time in the world.


End file.
